


The price

by mad2Bhere



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Background Character Death, Heavy Angst, M/M, Size Difference, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Tevinter Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8604961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad2Bhere/pseuds/mad2Bhere
Summary: His right hand claws at the palm of his left, urging him to remember that there is always more than one option, that there is the easy way and duty and madness. Even if they are all dead and never trusted him and never listened to a word he said and he didn't do a single damn thing right, he will not dishonor them. 
He will accept every brand there is, let them fuck him if they want, let them torture and starve and kill him if they want, but he will not allow anyone to insult his people's memory.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote when I was depressed.  
> Enjoy.
> 
> (And beware the tags. Orsino's head is not a fun place to be.)

 

 

 

He receives his brand before the first week is over.

Not the one he has been fearing, of course – this one is merely humiliating, and further reduces his value in their eyes. They mark him as 'rebellious', and isn't that funny in a way, that is has taken these people merely five days to figure him out, whereas Meredith...

No. His mind will not go there. Can't.

Anyway, now he finds himself in a precarious situation. He has already been placed among the faulty products, the old and infirm and injured slaves, but now even those are more valuable than him. At least they are obedient, knows that they have to be if they want to have any chance of being sold to a remotely benevolent master – he knows that, too, but to him that knowledge doesn't make a difference.

He knows their hope is misguided. Most of them will end up as blood sacrifices anyway – what else is one supposed to do with a former pleasure slave that is too old to be pretty, or an arena gladiator who has lost his arm in his last bout? No, they are deluding themselves if they honestly believe that fate has even a sliver of mercy left in store for them.

He feels a strange kind of kinship with these people he has never met. They all have already experienced great catastrophes, and together they wait for the curtain to fall.

But unlike them, he sees no reason to delay the inevitable.

He watches his interim master calculate whether the cost of continuing to feed Orsino will be outbalanced by the money he will earn by selling him at the market of Minrathous. In the end the numbers are not in his favor, and Orsino is forced to complete the journey on an empty stomach.

He has no eyes for the beauty of the city. Once upon a time he dreamt of coming here, of escaping over the sea to the paradise all mages longed for. But those days have long passed, and now he only feels a lingering sense of shame that he failed to die on his home soil, failed to die when he was supposed to. He should not be here, should not have lived to see this splendor – for Minrathous _is_ magnificent, at least in the eyes of one still able to be objective.

Orsino is not. His last duty as First Enchanter was to perish when his Circle fell, and he couldn't even do that right.

Oh, he tried. He has the scar to prove it. It just wasn't enough.

The vendor puts him at the very back of his small tent, almost as if he is embarrassed of even offering Orsino for sale. He is not sure what kind of value he would even have as a slave – they don't know about his magic, he is too old and too weak for physical labor, and even if he wasn't, his left arm is mostly useless. His thumb is the only finger he is able to move even slightly on that hand; all the others are dead, a result of cutting through flesh, muscles and tendons in his palm during his first and final attempt to let blood magic solve his problems. What could he possibly do to please a potential master?

Blood sacrifice it is, then.

His Tevene is rusty, mostly due to the fact that he has only ever learned it through books, and never had to use or understand spoken words. His accent has to be atrocious, and catching others' meaning is difficult because some words are pronounced differently than he expected.

He understands enough, however, to know that the other old slaves are holding out for the coinless magister.

There is a kind man, they say, who treats his slaves well if they are useful and who only ever uses his own blood to power his magic. He earned his title through his father's exploits, and only manages to keep it due to his innate powers marking him as a prodigy – otherwise he is not well respected. He has no head for business, and is prone to make social blunders.

And having already wasted most of his inheritance, he buys his slaves cheap.

Orsino wonders why they bother, why their survival _matters_ to them quite so much. He wonders whether all people are like that, and whether he killed that part of himself when he tried to – he would have liked to say _sacrifice himself for his people_ , but he does not have the strength to delude himself any longer. When the Knight-Commander stormed the tower to punish them for a crime that wasn't even theirs, he had abandoned everything.

It was the thirst for vengeance that made him draw his blade, vengeance for a thousand slights no one remembered any longer, for the lives they could have lived if they had been born different. He would have killed them all if he could have, templars and mages alike, and wouldn't that have been a fitting end for them all?

But then there had been Karl, and Ella, and Feynriel, the broken ones, the _tranquil_ ones, the only ones who had been _left_ by then _,_ and the half-elf had cradled Orsino's butchered hand in his and told him that _no, First Enchanter, that would be the easy way out,_ and his power had wavered before he had a chance to complete his spell.

They wanted him to _surrender_ of all things, wanted him to go out there and lay down his life, to die with dignity like he was supposed to and be the symbol the world needed to see that mages could _still_ be controlled, that all wasn't lost yet, that even if Kirkwall's Circle had failed they could still prove their loyalty.

It had simply been too much.

He had grabbed Ella because all three of them were resisting and as a woman she was the weakest one, the only one he could force to come along. He had dragged her down the secret passageways under the Gallows , to freedom, to _life_ , until he grew too tired to make her walk any further. She had simply turned back to face her doom while he had continued on doggedly, because he had to prove them wrong, just because he could, because it hardly _mattered_ what he did, whether he lived or turned into an abomination – as long as Meredith didn't get what she wanted.

He had run straight into a group of slavers as he had emerged in Darktown, and while he might have been able to defend himself despite his exhaustion, he simply hadn't seen the point any longer.

He hadn't been thinking straight. Maybe he hadn't been thinking _at all_ , but that hardly mattered at this point.

Kirkwall's Knight-Commander had called for Annulment, and Kirkwall's First Enchanter had been the only one to escape her judgment. There could be no greater satisfaction, no greater shame, to know that he was beyond her reach now and would die here in Tevinter for no discernable cause other than his own pride and stubbornness.

Of course the coinless magister doesn't come that morning, or that afternoon, or that evening.

He knows because he sees the fear in the eyes of the old slaves that do get sold, notices how there's hardly any haggling involved at their purchase. He learns their whole lives are worth less than a night with one of Kirkwall's most prestigious prostitutes, less than the robes he used to wear.

In a detached kind of way he wonders what his own life will be worth in the end.

The second day of their stay in Minrathous he notices just how much he has displeased the vendor.  All slaves are supposed to kneel on the ground, head demurely bowed, hands behind their backs, feet carefully aligned, but without nourishment his body no longer has the strength. He is lying on his side, breathing shallowly and waiting for this day to pass, and no one even cares about this transgression. But he is in no one's way here in his corner and he doesn't incur any costs, so the vendor is content to let him slip in and out of consciousness for the whole day.

Maybe he hopes someone will buy him out of pity.

If the coinless magister comes that day, Orsino doesn't notice.

The third day is his final chance. Even through the haze of hunger the former First Enchanter remembers that. (And is such a thing even possible, a _former First Enchanter_? He has not exactly retired, and no one else has taken the title as far as he knows, but how can he be a First Enchanter without a Circle to lead? Is there already a word for a failed leader such as himself, or is he allowed to make one up?)

He is almost disgusted with himself, but whenever someone new enters their tent Orsino's gaze is instantly drawn to the other old slaves, to see if he can find any hint in their expression whether the man entering is the one they are waiting for. His own behavior puzzles him for a time, before he understands.

He does not want to die. Despite everything that has happened, everything he has done, he does not want to die. He wants the kind man to come and choose him, even though he has no idea what is going to happen afterwards, what he would want to happen.

It is the final cruelty he must suffer.

Dying would be so much easier if he didn't have this foolish hope to cling to that maybe, just _maybe_ someone is going to swoop in and save him. If someone simply walked up to him and told him that _this is it, this is where it ends_ , he would probably be able to accept that.

But now the poison has spread to his brain and he waits, like all the other old and crippled slaves, for a man whose face no one knows and who most likely does not even exist.

He sleeps a lot that day, and when he wakes up, it is to the sound of two men haggling over him.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

Two slaves have to drag him to the estate, because he is unable to walk on his own.

Once they have reached their destination they feed, wash and clothe him, and he has never felt so powerless in his entire life. He is surprised at his good fortune for a few hours, until he notices that the outfit he has been presented with barely covers his nakedness, and he is sent into a grand bedroom where he is instructed to wait for his new master.

Of course. Now that he thinks about it, it actually makes sense. The only feasible alternative to blood sacrifice could have been whore.

Orsino knows he would not be most people's first choice for this role, but some men have strange tastes. Perhaps a fascination with long ears combined with unresolved father issues are the cause of his master's perverse desires.

Or maybe the magister really is just poor, and can't afford a more pleasing companion.

Orsino has not heard or seen just how much money changed hands for him, but he is certain he has not seen a single gold piece among the pile.

He sits alone in the bedroom, half hidden underneath the covers and waits, uncertain what to do with himself. This is not how he always pictured his life playing out.

He is not sure whether he is going to simply spread his legs for this man, or ruin it all by resisting. The last three months have been a string of spontaneous, knee-jerk decisions on his part, and he doubts he will be able to simply stop now.

He stares at the portrait on the wall for a time, just atop the door his master could be walking through any moment, and chuckles once, twice, before the sound starts to distress him.

It's funny, and he is the only one who gets the joke.

He _knows_ that man mounted on the wall, even though he looks older in the portrait, more dignified. It has been thirty years since they last spoke, but then again Orsino has always remembered the lost ones better than those he has actually been able to save. They have never been friends, belonged to two different groups that rarely mingled, just two people that fate and the Templar Order had forced to live under the same roof. They had all thought it would only be a matter of time until the knights would drag him back to the tower kicking and screaming, but it had been so long ago that Orsino had been convinced this face would be among the few ones he would never see again.

Malcolm Hawke.

So his escape had been successful after all.

Orsino is glad for him. He hasn't seen much of the estate yet, but surely Malcolm has led a good life here. It is not as grand as some of the other mansions he has spotted during his walk through the city, but it seems comfortable. The portrait shows Malcolm surrounded by his family, a woman that is most likely his wife and their three children, two boys and one girl, children that would never have been born if Malcolm had stayed at the tower. They are all smiling.

Yes, Orsino decides, he is glad for Malcolm. It's a nice existence he has built for himself. Maybe some of the others that have left the Circle found something like this, as well.

It's a quaint little fantasy.

He wonders which of those children inherited Malcolm's title, and which one he is expected to please. For selfish reasons he hopes it is the girl, but he doubts a female magister would ever let a slave's prick anywhere near her. Then again, he still isn't sure what rules this society is built on; maybe Tevinter is more tolerant when it comes to its people's sexual preferences.

Oh well. He will find out soon enough.

Just as he thinks that, the door opens and an angry young man storms in. Orsino sees the resemblance between him and his mother immediately, and with the help of the painting he identifies him as the younger son, the one half hidden by his brother's larger frame.

He stops short when he spots Orsino on the bed.

"What are you doing here?", the boy asks.

"I was hoping you could tell me", he answers with a shrug, and wonders whether that is something a good slave would say to his master. Before he has a chance to add anything, however, the boy turns on his heel and leaves in a hurry, his voice echoing through the corridor.

"Garrett! Where are you?!"

Orsino just sits there and waits, since no one has given him any new orders and he doubts the family would be pleased to see one of their slaves wander about without permission.

Times passes slowly since he has nothing to divert himself, and it comes almost as a relief when the angry boy returns with his older sibling in tow.

"Garrett, what is that?", he asks and points in Orsino's direction, as if the elf was some rodent he had found crawling into their cellar.

The other man simply shrugs. If it weren't for the beard, he would look just like Malcolm did when he still lived at Kirkwall's Circle. The resemblance is uncanny.

"You told me to get a new slave. This is him", Garrett offers, but there is a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it! You need a slave you can show off at Laurentius' party, one that would earn us a modicum of respect, and not this..."

Again, the younger brother points at the First Enchanter sitting on the bed, unable to find a correct word that adequately describes his existence.

Orsino wonders whether this would be a good moment to tell them he was an acquaintance of their father's, but ultimately decides it would be more amusing to wait until later, when one of them orders him to share their bed.

"They are already laughing about you, about _us,_ and you keep dragging in these strays. This isn't a game, Garrett. Have you forgotten how hard Father had to work just to – "

"I think this one will do just fine, Carver."

The heir's voice brooks no argument. Despite that the younger sibling tries to speak up, but is rudely interrupted once more.

"Look at him, brother. Really look at him."

The one called Carver does – and just because he feels like he is missing something important, Orsino does, too. He wonders what Garrett has seen that no one else has noticed yet.

He knows how he looks, and the flimsy garment he wears does nothing to conceal his body.

For a slave, his appearance is unusual. The lack of muscle in his arms and upper body is proof that he has not spent a single day of his life performing physical labor. His skin has too many imperfections for him to be a pleasure slave, and Orsino would be the first to admit that his form is not particularly desirable. There are no marks on him that would identify him as a victim of frequent beatings or bleedings.

Orsino watches Carver's eyes widen as he makes the connection.

"You're a Circle mage, aren't you? From across the sea?"

For minutes he has been lying in a stranger's bed wearing nothing but a velvety, semi-transparent nightgown that ends just below his buttocks, but only now does he start to feel self-conscious.

"No", he says immediately, and it's not even a lie: His Circle is gone, after all.

"Hey, it's alright, you don't have to be afraid. There are no templars in Tevinter. Well, there are, but not the kind you know", Garrett is quick to assure, and Orsino just shakes his head determinedly.

"You are mistaken", he insists, and wonders why he is so defensive, so eager to deny the only life he has ever known. "I'm sorry if that belief is the only reason you purchased me."

It is better this way. Let them have his body, but never his magic. If he has to spend the rest of his life as a magister's pet, then so be it, but he will not perform parlor tricks and be forced to remember his failure every day. His magic couldn't protect the people in his care, but he will not waste it just to amuse vile blood mages who do not understand their struggle.

Garrett Hawke walks over with determination and grips his hand, the damaged one, and he can hardly feel the touch through his dead fingers, so the boy will have to realize –

Maker. It has been only two weeks since he left Kirkwall, but with another mage holding on to his skin his own magic flares to life, surging to answer the power he can feel inside the other man. It's strong, he can tell that much, but it is also strange, foreign – proof that he has been trained differently. And yet the feeling in itself is so familiar that it nearly brings tears to his eyes, and he wonders how he could have ever hoped to conceal his identity from another mage.

So this shall be his punishment. He will bear their ridicule during the day and spread his legs for them at night, until he finally finds the courage to end what Meredith started.

He pulls away as if burned, retreats as far as he can and watches Garrett staring at him, arm still outstretched.

"Damn", he says, his expression a mixture of confusion and awe. "I guessed you were probably some kind of enchanter, but... you're powerful."

And yet this man, who is barely half his age, is stronger still. The raw potential is there, at least, and it is maddening: Orsino has honed his powers for all his life, and this man has already surpassed him.

"Don't touch me again", he hisses, and wishes he had been bought as a blood sacrifice after all. He is not being a good slave, and he doesn't care, for his survival is the last thing he has on his mind right now. "I would rather slit my own throat than be paraded around at your next dinner party."

It is not his pride, but the knowledge that his people deserve better.

He has watched the templars butcher them like animals, watched them trade their souls for blood magic just to live a minute longer, watched them take their own lives in despair, watched the tower burn, the tower that was prison, execution ground and _home_ all at once, and he will not tell his story and listen to Tevinter mages making witty remarks in response. They will think it a joke, will think them weak, scared little children afraid of their own power, and maybe they _were,_ but he will not let them be judged, will not let their deaths become _entertainment._  He will mourn them properly, even though he has no right to do so after he failed them all, but he is the only one who can, the only one who _understands_ , and that's all he has left to offer.

His right hand claws at the palm of his left, urging himself to remember that there is always more than one option, that there is the easy way and duty and _madness_ , and even if they are all dead and never trusted him and never listened to a word he said and he didn't do a single _damn thing_ right, he will not dishonor them. He will accept every brand there is, let them fuck him if they want, let them torture and starve and kill him if they want, but he will not allow anyone to insult his people's memory.

He doesn't remember all of their names, hasn't seen all of them die, hasn't been strong enough to save even a single soul, and that's all on him. That is his legacy. They were innocent, and he was the coward that ran. Let that be the story they tell. He will not shame them by claiming otherwise, can't; the only thing he can say for himself is that he has always _tried_ , and he will not stop now. They deserved so much more, and he has always been inadequate, but he has tried for nearly _fifty years_ and he didn't save a single one of them.

Tevinter shall not have it. He would rather die than let them make fun of his people.

This time there is no one to convince him otherwise. All he needs is a drop of blood to end this.

But the Hawke brothers are faster. Carver's Smite feels different, the gestures associated with the spell look ridiculous, but it forces him to double over all the same. His own magic burns him from the inside out, but he still has enough strength to bury his fist in Garrett's face before the man is able to grab his wrists.

He falls to the ground and that's fortunate – he throws his head back, batters it against the wine-red carpet, trying to make himself bleed that way, but Carver's second Smite takes even that last bit of fight out of him.

His last thought is that they are going to kill him here, but of course he could never be that fortunate.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

Minrathous at night is beautiful.

From where he is lying he can see the city on the other side of the windows, and it truly is a marvel. All the other houses are shining brightly, and sometimes he can see silhouettes moving behind the curtains. No torches or candles are necessary: Those are magelights, blue and green and yellow and red and white and all the colors in between. In Tevinter this is normal, and no one is afraid or disgusted.

"Tell me about your parents."

Garrett speaks softly, as if he is afraid he will startle Orsino if he raises his voice. His hands are gentle, as well: The former First Enchanter is resting with his head in his lap, and Garrett strokes his hair and massages his head.

His mind is sluggish. Templar magic does that to him, and if there is anything strange about his current situation, he does not realize it.

"I don't remember", he says by force of habit, without even trying to recall anything. "My magic manifested when I was six years old. I can't..." He licks his lips. "There was only the Circle."

Orsino turns his head and sees Carver standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. The boy looks even angrier than earlier, and he has brought a sword.

Garrett hums softly in response. "Tell me where you're from, originally."

The fingers in his hair slip lower, over his forehead and his cheeks, softly mapping his skin, and Orsino closes his eyes so Garrett can touch him there as well. It has been decades since anyone has touched him like that. He never wants it to end.

"Ansburg. The Free Marches", he adds, because that might not be clear. "The Alienage."

"What do you remember about that place?"

Orsino makes a noise deep inside his throat, and tries to recall something he has not thought about in years. There are a handful of memories in his head: Fragments, really, a scene he has witnessed, the face of a person, a voice, forever carved in stone, unchanging. A man who might or might not be his father, smiling down at him. Two other children he played with, siblings or friends, he has no way of knowing. There were never any letters or visitors for him.

One memory is clearer than the others, and he focuses on that.

"The walls", he says after a while. "All around the Alienage. Made of wood, and higher than the tree. I never saw what was on the other side. I never wanted to."

He furrows his brow, because that can't be true. One time the gate must have opened for him, the day he left for good, but he has no memories of that. Still, he must have seen Ansburg, the whole city. More than once, actually. He returned many years later, when his duties led him there, but never returned to the Alienage. He remembers standing on the other side of the gate, confused that there were so few houses beyond, how small everything was. He didn't go in, because he had a strange feeling he would not have liked the answers he would have found there.

Meanwhile Garrett's hands have found his neck, and even though that feels nice Orsino twists his head to the side so the man can get one of his ears next. He sighs softly when he feels a soft tugging on his earlobe that disappears instantly, because anything else would be far too intimate. He enjoys it anyway.

It has been so long.

"It was different at the tower. There were no real walls, only the sea, and it wasn't the same."

He remembers looking out of the windows, every day, and seeing the City of Chains so close, and so impossibly far away. He remembered realizing how big the world actually was, and how insignificant his own existence. He doesn't want to think about the tower. Those memories are his alone.

"Tell me more about the Alienage", Hawke says, and Orsino does not have the words to express how grateful he is. The hands are back running through his hair. He can _hear_ Garrett caressing him rather than actually _feel_ it; the man's touch is impossibly gentle. The man shifts slightly beneath him to get more comfortable, and Orsino can feel the muscles in those powerful thighs flexing. So unlike any other mages he has met.

He has already exhausted his childhood memories, so he has to draw upon more recent incidents.

"I used to frequently visit Kirkwall's Alienage."

Although if he had really wanted to see elves, he should have gone to Darktown instead. After the Fereldan refugees started flooding the city, that was the only place where there was enough space to house them all. But of course Meredith would never let him go there – too many of her own people got assaulted there, and she couldn't risk the First Enchanter's life.

"It was small, even before the qunari attacked. Easy to contain. The people there don't accept the Circle, just like they don't accept any institution created by humans. I tried to change that, convince them to give up their children." He sighed. "But instead they run away chasing the myth of the Dalish, and then they get caught by slavers or Tal Vashoth or pirates or mercenaries or – or monster spiders or something like that."

He wonders whether those deaths are his fault, as well. Could he have saved them  if he had invested more time to convince their parents? Maybe he could have made a difference.

It wasn't just the Annulment. Even before that he had screwed up, little things that added up until there was no one left.

Just how many people had he gotten killed, anyway? Dozens? Hundreds? He has no idea. Would Meredith count the bodies? Is she searching for him even now? What would she say if she could see him now, lying half-naked in a magister's bed?

"You are First Enchanter Orsino, aren't you?"

He wonders what gave him away, and chuckles softly. The urge to deny it is there, so he shakes his head slowly, but there's no real emotion behind it.

"No", he says anyway, and it's not a lie. His Circle is gone, after all.

His Circle is gone.

He hasn't shed any tears, doesn't know how. He wants to make amends, but he has no idea where he is even supposed to start with that. He wants vengeance, forgiveness, closure, but _his Circle is gone._

It is a paradox that should not be possible. How can he even exist when the Circle doesn't? It makes no sense. He chose madness, because he refused to give Meredith the satisfaction of choosing duty, and Feynriel stopped him from taking the easy way.

He reaches up and tries to hold Garrett's hand with his ruined one, laughing softly when he finds that he can't. Just his thumb is not enough when everything else is dead. He can only rub his fingers against Garrett's hand, feeling magic but no skin while his thumb twitches feebly, and it _hurts_ to do even this much.

He can't live without the Circle. It's just not possible.

And yet despite everything, he does not want to die.

He has never hated himself quite this much before.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

Garrett Hawke allows him to wander the house, but forbids him from leaving the estate. In the following days he frequently contemplates disobeying, fleeing, escaping, but never in earnest. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and more freedoms as a slave than he ever had as a Circle mage.

They let him stay in Garrett's bedroom, but the so-called coinless magister never joins him there. It only takes one night for his clothes in the cupboard to be replaced by garments that would fit an elf with Orsino's stature, and he usually chooses to wear dark green robes that instill a bitter-sweet sense of nostalgia in him.

No one explains to him just what his purpose is here, content to let him aimlessly wander the hallways. He wastes his days by taking books from the Hawke's extensive library and improving his Tevene, trying to teach himself how to draw letters he has been able to recognize when he reads them, but never been able to replicate. It is slow going, with his mind no longer as flexible as it used to be, but after a few weeks he starts making progress.

Despite Garrett's invitation he does not join the family during meals, while at the same time refusing to eat in the slave's quarters. Instead he takes his food to the bedroom, content in his solitude. He meets the other members of the household mostly in passing, but they always offer a kind word and politely inquire about his day.

His position is an oddity, as he is neither slave nor guest nor prisoner. Orsino has no word to describe it. Then again without his Circle his whole existence is an oddity, and he chooses not to question it.

The date of Laurentius' dinner party comes and goes, and Garrett Hawke does not attend.

One day Orsino enters the library just to see that someone else is already there: The third Hawke sibling, Bethany, a mage like her brother. While powerful, her magic feels different, lacking the capacity for boundless destruction that defines Garrett.

She is in the middle of practicing a simple restoration spell, but seems to have difficulty without proper guidance, and her brother cannot aid her since he lacks even the most basic understanding of the underlying theory. It is the burden of the prodigies: Power that simply is, that is one's birthright, granting responsibilities one is not prepared for, because one does not have to work for it. Garrett has the markings of an exceptional mage, but will make a poor instructor. That is simply the way of things.

Orsino sits down next to her and starts explaining without even realizing what he is doing. It is unbelievably easy to fall back into old patterns, and before he knows it he is speaking to her as if she were one of his apprentices, one of the good ones, the ones eager to learn and not yet broken by life inside a tower. She is attentive, grasps concepts quickly, and takes his words to heart.

He is just about to finish the lesson with his customary reassurances – that the Harrowing is nothing to fear, merely a rite of passage, and that she should come to his office sometime next week if she seriously considers the alternative of tranquility – when he finally realizes what he is doing.

He does not leave his room the next day, or the day after that.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Carver's bed slave is a soft-spoken, shy elven girl. Whenever they meet in passing, she bows to Orsino and addresses him as if he was her master rather than a fellow slave. Genuine affection seems to bind her and Bethany's twin together, and there is talk among the other slaves that Carver is planning to set her free soon so he can marry her. Indeed the boy appears to be drowning in the necessary paperwork whenever Orsino sees him, and he spends much time in the library hunched over a desk, trying to make sense of the various forms the Council expects him to sign.

"He is worried about my reputation", Garrett explains one day when Orsino asks him about it. "There will be talk if the brother of a magister marries a former slave, otherwise he would have done this much sooner. He wants to do it right."

He speaks with such fondness about his brother that Orsino cannot help but recall the feeling of his hand in his hair. They never speak about that day, or the Circle, or Orsino's identity, or his future. It is a temporary peace that is bound to shatter one day, but for now they are both content to continue on like this.

It takes a few days of inconspicuously lingering in the estate's guest wing Garrett moved into after Orsino started occupying his bedroom, but eventually the former First Enchanter is convinced that if the magister himself has any bed slaves, they must be incredibly silent and stealthy mutes that enter and leave through the window.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

Days turn into weeks and weeks into months, and eventually Garrett comes to talk to him. They meet on neutral ground, in the library where Orsino spends most of his time nowadays, and the suggestion is innocent enough.

"There is a symposium in two days", he says with a friendly, but uncertain smile on his smile. "I thought you might want to come along."

Orsino takes the letter the magister offers, and is intrigued despite himself. This could be his opportunity to learn something about Tevinter magic that would not come out of ancient tomes that date back hundreds of years. The offer is tempting.

"You would have to come as my companion, though", Garrett adds warily, and Orsino has lived here long enough to know that when Malcolm's son says 'companion', he means 'slave'. "You will have to wear clothing that marks you as a Circle mage; otherwise I won't be able to explain your presence. But I swear to you that no one will hear about your true identity from me, and if anyone attempts to question you on your past, I will intervene. You shall have nothing to fear in my presence."

Orsino recognizes the kindness for what it is: Three weeks ago Garrett received a similar invitation, and accepted only with much complaining that resulted in an angry argument with his brother during which he claimed that this would be _the absolute last time I listen to old men sitting in a circle and sharing their Fade dreams with each other._ It is clear he doesn't like these meetings.

"I appreciate the sentiment. I truly do", he begins and watches Garrett's face fall. He wishes there could be a different answer, but he is not ready yet. "I don't think that would be a good idea right now."

"Ah, no, of course, I get that", the magister answers quickly, stumbling over his words like an awkward young boy, and Orsino finds the sight both annoying and endearing. "Take your time, as long as you need. There's no hurry. Or don't, I mean, you don't have to. I'm not going to force you into anything. Usually I get these kind of letters twice a month, so if you ever feel like joining just tell me, alright?"

The former First Enchanter nods even though he doesn't plan on taking Garrett up on his offer anytime soon, but the little gesture is enough to bring the smile back to his face. In a way it saddens Orsino to see how easily he can effect this man's composure, how important this is to Garrett.

"Perhaps", the elf adds in a sudden bout of madness, "you could take me to the market one of these days, show me the city. If you can spare the time."

Garrett grins as if _he_ is the one receiving a kindness he does not deserve and that he can never repay.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Hawke is attentive – there is no other word for it.

When they visit the market together and Orsino's gaze lingers on some trinket for a second too long, Garrett will buy it without hesitation, no matter the price. He has figured out that Orsino likes to eat fresh fruit for breakfast, and instructs the slaves to bring some to his room first thing in the morning. Whenever he wanders into the library he finds new books Hawke has left for him, some of them written in the common tongue. One day Carver makes a thoughtless comment about mages in his presence (which, according to Bethany, is nothing unusual for Carver; he means no offense) and his older brother sends him to his room without supper, as if Carver was a little boy and Garrett his father.

It's nice to see somebody try, but it also makes him uneasy. He has learned that everything that looks too good to be true probably is, and is merely a pretext to some horrendous catastrophe.

"What kind of slave were you looking for when you bought me?", he asks on day while they are out shopping together, and wanders purposefully over to the colorful tents where slaves are being sold. Hawke never takes him there, never does anything that could upset him, and Orsino is tired of it. "Let's get you a suitable one that will impress your brother."

Garrett reluctantly catches up with him, unwilling to let the former First Enchanter out of his sight.

Apparently the vendor that sold him was a special case. Most of them only offer one particular kind of slave: Some tents hold only arena slaves, others only women clearly intended to become pleasure slaves. He sees elves, children, qunari, warriors, whores, scholars, mages.

He also sees that Hawke doesn't look at any of them. His eyes seek the weak ones, the damaged goods no one else would buy, the most wretched ones among the whole batch.

The sight makes him angry. Here stands a man who has both the fortune and the time to try and save every desperate soul he comes across. A fool.

"Focus", Orsino snarls. "Tell me which one would impress the others magisters."

"That depends", Garrett begins. "Gladiators are usually well respected, but elves are always pretty to look at even when they are not useful, so –" He trails off with a horrified expression, and Orsino snickers.

"What would one normally do with a slave with the gift of magic?", he asks, and Garrett has the decency to look ashamed.

"Usually they become arena warriors. They fight beasts, sometimes actual gladiators, but never to the death. They are too rare for that."

"Hmm..."

Orsino nods distractedly and keeps his eyes on the merchandise, all the while nervously fingering the bracelet that marks him as Hawke's property. Some of those vendors look at him like they are assessing his value. It irritates him.

"Do you know much about the arena fights?"

Garrett shakes his head. "I've seen a few, but I don't bet, and I never owned a gladiator of my own."

That is not an option, then; Orsino can't very well make Garrett spend a fortune for a slave he does not know how to use.

They end up buying a young elven woman with skin like fresh cream, vibrant blue eyes and long blond hair, a pretty little thing whose only flaw is that her voice sounds like glass scraping on metal. She is self-conscious and answers most questions by either nodding or shaking her head, too fearful to speak, and Garrett instantly showers her with attention, trying to reassure her. By the end of the day his efforts earn him a sweet, trusting smile, and Orsino makes sure her room is on the other end of the estate, as far away from the guest wing as possible.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Those last few months before his Circle fell, his nerves had been frayed. Mad by worry for his people he had started second-guessing all of his decisions, had changed his mind over and over again, had threatened the Knight-Commander just to assure her of his never-ending loyalty a few hours later, had written to anyone who might have been able to make a difference, only sleeping when he passed out from exhaustion right there in his office.

Now he is idle.

He had not believed himself still capable of this emotion, but there it is: He is bored.

It's not healthy, this stasis – it leaves him with too much time on his hands, time he spends _thinking,_ remembering. He needs something to occupy himself.

To Bethany's delight he resumes his lessons with her and makes them a regular occurrence.

After all those years it's nearly routine. He has taught so many apprentices that there is almost nothing Garrett's sister could say or do to surprise him – quite the contrary. Sometimes she asks a question he has heard before, or he offers an explanation or a metaphor which result in a terrible sense of déjà vu.

The faces of dead children haunt him at night.

And yet it feels good. Ever since coming to Tevinter he has not relied on his magic because there was no need; but now, casting simple spells for demonstrating purposes and explaining how they work feels oddly... liberating. It brings a sense of normalcy to his existence he has missed in the past few months.

There could be a life here for him, if he only chose to live it.

Ah, but perhaps that is exactly the problem.

He doesn't want this, whatever this is. This chance. This possibility.

Meanwhile Garrett takes his new slave with him wherever he goes. The other mages he interact with probably assume the girl is his pleasure slave – and in the weeks that follow Orsino frequently reminds both her and Hawke that they only need to _pretend_ in front of others that they share an intimate connection – no actual pleasure has to be involved.

He is a bitter, spiteful, selfish old man, and he knows it.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

His sheets smell like Garrett, which is impressive considering that the man has not slept in this bed for weeks.

It's a scent Orsino's body has started to identify with comfort. Safety. The thought makes him sick.

He does not deserve this. It feels like he stole this from the people he was supposed to protect. Garrett should fuck him, rape him, tear him asunder and then use his remains to fuel his magic. That should have been his fate. Death should have come weeks ago, and yet it continues to elude him.

So Orsino decides to force the issue.

For some reason the nearly transparent nightgown he was forced to wear during his first encounter with Hawke is still inside the cupboard, waiting to be worn again. Now that he chances a closer look at it, he notices that it is probably meant for a woman: It is too wide around the chest and hips for him. He would look ridiculous.

He would look ridiculous even if the damn thing fit him. He has never been handsome, and dressing an old man like himself up like this just looks sad. Garrett will probably laugh at him.

Putting it on willingly is more embarrassing than he imagined. The silky fabric is soft and cool against his skin, and his nipples instantly perk up at the sensation. He examines his reflection in the mirror, displeased by what he finds there.

The Hawkes care well for him, too well: Every day the other slaves bring him salves and potions for his skin and hair, and even possess the audacity to apply them if he refuses to do so himself. As a result he looks healthier than he has in years, the white pallor of his skin is now creamy rather than sickly, and his hair feels so soft and strange that he simply has to touch it absentmindedly every once in a while. He looks...

... not like himself.

An unfamiliar man stares at him through the looking glass. A slave, a whore, eagerly dressing up for his master. A pretty pet. A doll. Another man's possession. Another mage's fucktoy. That's all he is now.

Well. In that case he should get this over with already.

No one pays him any mind as he crosses the hallways leading to the guest room Garrett is inhabiting now. He wonders whether they have finally accepted that he is odd or whether half-dressed elves are simply a regular occurrence in this household.

The door is not locked, and the room it leads to is nearly identical to the one he lives in. Garrett is not there yet, and so Orsino slips beneath the covers and waits for him. The sheets are cold against his bare legs.

Silk and velvet. Of course. Apparently the family is not as poor as he was led to believe.

Experimentally he opens his legs and tries his hardest to relax. Imagines what it would be like to have a body lying on top of him. Imagines being touched. Being spread open. Being forced. Getting fucked.

He would have done this years ago if it had helped in any way. Meredith, Cullen, Alrik, every single one of them: They could have had him if they had been interested. He would have let them do whatever they wanted if even a single one had been spared as a result.

But no one has ever lain a hand on Orsino, at least not that way. There had always been younger, prettier mages to rape.

He knows that. He has seen the injuries. He has had young girls crying in his arms; he has been kicked and beaten and injured by those who have been too terrified to bear another man's touch. He helped them get rid of unwanted pregnancies.

And he gave up on most of them. After a while he learned that such stories usually ended with blood magic or suicide, and sometimes a combination thereof. They needed more help than he could provide, and eventually he realized that they were simply not worth the effort. Better to focus his attention on those he actually could save, who were not damaged beyond repair.

It is only right that he should experience the same torture now.

He closes his eyes as he hears the door open. Garrett's footsteps are loud and heavy, but come to a sudden stop.

"Orsino? What are you doing here?"

A lot of answers come to mind.

_Earning my keep. Atoning for my sins. Trying to get these voices out of my head for a few minutes._

Naturally he can't admit any of that. The magister who owns him is kind, would probably try to talk him out of this, and he can't have that.

He wants it rough. He wants to be reduced to a broken, crying, bleeding mess. He wants to know what that feels like.

He wants to know what tranquility feels like. Death. He finally wants to know for certain which is the kinder fate. He wants to experience what his people felt. This is just the beginning, the first step. He will have everything else later. Hawke is merely a means to an end.

Seduction is not a skill he has much practice using, but it can't be that difficult when he is already half-naked in another man's bed. He pulls the covers away in one swift motion and opens his legs as wide as he can, freely offering himself. Predictably Garrett's eyes track the motion, and Orsino barely manages to resist the urge to cover himself again. This way the magister can see _everything_.

"What do you think?", he retorts, and is pleased to discover that his voice does not shake. "Come here."

The magister is not so easily convinced, however.

"You know you don't have to do this, right?"

"Of course. I understand you would never force me, never hurt me. That's why I'm here."

Garrett is still frowning, and for one horrible moment Orsino fears he misunderstood his whole situation somehow. That the magister does not desire him at all. That he is only making a fool of himself.

But then Hawke's face softens, and he walks over to the bed. The former First Enchanter starts shifting restlessly then; he is not sure what he is supposed to do now, should he sit up, or stay down? Should he raise his knees and expose...?

Then Garrett stands next to his head, and the moment is over.

The feeling of another man's lips on his is strange and unexpected, mostly becomes it comes with a healthy dose of beard. Instinct makes him retreat, and he inwardly curses himself.

"I'm sorry", he says, allowing his smile to show a little insecurity. "It's been a long time."

It has been a long time, he realizes suddenly. So long since anybody bothered to look at him the way Hawke does now. Sometimes it is hard to remember that there was a time when he hadn't been First Enchanter, when he had been just one mage among others. Just one man. How long has it been, truly? He doesn't even remember. Never allowed himself to miss those times.

This time he is prepared when Garrett kisses him. This time he opens his mouth obediently, allows him to slip his tongue inside. He can feel the bed dip as Garrett climbs on top of him.

The beard is a nice little detail, actually. He can close his eyes and think it's Alrik above him. The man has been dead for a few years now, murdered in Darktown's alleys by a runaway apostate, but while he was alive he had been one of Orsino's worst nightmares.

He was the first one to learn that the tranquil were almost incapable of disobeying orders. They would let bodily harm come to themselves if one offered them a compelling reason to do so. They would let the knights fuck them if they asked them to.

And then Alrik had had the brilliant idea to turn them all tranquil.

His legs part of their own accord to help a questing finger find its target. He tenses when it does – he is an elf while Garrett is clearly not, and his finger feels _enormous_.

"Ah, sorry. Got a little eager there."

Garrett is quick to apologize, and even quicker to draw back and rummage through his drawer, causing Orsino to sigh in disappointment. Of course it was too much to hope the magister would take him dry. Malcolm's son is clearly looking for a gentle bout of lovemaking here, and Orsino finds himself wishing once again that someone else had purchased him. Anyone else.

When Hawke's finger finds his hole again it is thoroughly lubricated, but its touch is still cold and uncomfortable. He doesn't outright prod, though: Garrett massages him gently until Orsino relaxes almost against his will, and his finger encounters barely any resistance as it slips inside. By now it's warm and nice, and Garrett's hot breath on his ear makes it even better.

This will not do. Not at all.

"You don't have to be this careful. I can take it."

It takes many more of these encouraging words until Garrett finally gets the message. A second finger joins the first, and the third actually makes him groan in pain. He manages to convert the noise into a moan that sounds partly believable, and opens his legs wider despite the discomfort.

It's not that bad. Not unbearable.

Then Garrett buries his fingers deep and twists them somehow, and suddenly it _is_ that bad.

Suddenly he's gasping. Panting. Moaning in earnest. Suddenly he feels...

Suddenly he becomes the whore he imagined himself to be.

Suddenly it's good. Too good. His body becomes interested. This is not what he wants.

Than Garrett's free hand starts making a beeline for Orsino's member, and he quickly twists aside.

This is not supposed to be pleasurable.

"Stop teasing me. Just fuck me already. Hurry."

_Before I lose myself to this._

Again it takes some more cajoling, but eventually he gets his wish.

Eventually he is kneeling on the bed, his good hand fisted into the pillow, his broken one covering his mouth, desperately trying to keep himself from spilling any more of those wretched sounds.

The first thrust hurts. The dozen ones that follow are not much better. But then...

He would like to say he gets used to it, that it gets easier with time, but that's not it.

It has been too long. He realizes that suddenly when he feels Hawke's tongue on his ear; or maybe those are just his lips, sometimes that's difficult to tell, the only thing he knows is that it's hot and wet and feels _divine_. His breath hitches as Hawke licks or mouths his way upwards, lingering on the tip. No, it has to be his tongue; otherwise he would feel the beard raking across his skin. He is just about to – what? Complain? Beg? – when the magister closes his lips around the tip of his ear and starts _sucking_.

He tries to snarl, but it comes out as a breathless moan instead.

The stretching is incredible, unbelievable – he didn't even know his body could yield this way. Garrett goes slow, gives him time to adapt, stops and rubs Orsino's spine at the first sign of discomfort until he relaxes. Before long his own member is hard and leaking beneath him.

It's good.

It's so good, it's just not fair.

It's not right.

This isn't what he came for.

He doesn't deserve this.

He doesn't _deserve_ this.

His moans dissolve into sobs.

 

\------------------------------

 

Afterwards Garrett strokes his hair again.

His hand is so huge – how come Orsino didn't notice that the last time? The magister only has to move his fingers a little to pet his whole head. It makes him feel small and insignificant, a curious sensation.

"Where were you?", he asks suddenly, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow he is hiding his face in. He is lying on his side, with Garrett curled around him. He hasn't felt this warm in years.

"What do you mean?"

Orsino sighs.

He shouldn't clarify. It's not as if he is expecting a serious answer, anyway. The thought came to him, and he voiced it without really considering the possible consequences.

He just noticed that Garrett Hawke is the most compassionate, most powerful mage he ever met.

"Where were you when my Circle fell?"

And just as he predicted, Garrett doesn't know how to respond.


End file.
